


Haywire

by chubbystoutpenguin



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Canon Compliant, Ficlet Collection, Fluff and Angst, M/M, Marley Arc (Shingeki no Kyojin), Past Reiner Braun/Bertolt Hoover, Reiner dies in RtS, Smoking, Smut
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-09
Updated: 2021-01-03
Packaged: 2021-03-10 11:34:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,284
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27969905
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chubbystoutpenguin/pseuds/chubbystoutpenguin
Summary: They each had lost someone to Paradis. Now they held onto each other as they continued their duties in Marley.An anthology series of ficlets exploring Bertholdt x Porco if Reiner had died in Return to Shigansina arc.
Relationships: Porco Galliard/Bertolt Hoover
Comments: 42
Kudos: 46





	1. charred

**Author's Note:**

> I've been consumed by this crack ship recently. Edgetolt x Porco is such an interesting duo (who wouldn't love to see salty and sarcastic boyfriends tearing down Marley?), and I can foresee Bertholdt coping in many different ways if he had accidentally killed Reiner in RtS. 
> 
> Expect no continuity, just a whole lot of random ideas. Also doesn’t consistently contain past Reibert.

Reiner had been wrong. He wasn’t unreliable.

Neither was he indecisive. After all, he had blown Shiganshina to smithereens even when Reiner was in the way, hadn’t he? That was a decision; a big one.

He swallowed the rest of that thought along with his drink, burning and fighting all the way down.

A Warrior’s life is a life of transience, he thought. Fleeting pleasures, fleeting pain. That was why he drank, smoked, crushed the butt of his cigarettes — still alight — in the palm of his hand. The pain was ephemeral, scalding for a hot second before molding into the heat of his own steam as he healed. After a while, it was nothing but a sting and a show.

 _Do it again, Mr. Hoover,_ one of the cadets had exclaimed. It was the first and last time they ever did so. Now they uttered his name stoically, with reverence.

Porco said he had become an old man. A grump.

 _Then why are you still here?_ he heard himself ask. He realized he was in his room now, with warm skin under his fingertips and warmer lips against his. He wondered how he got there, but the journey between the bar and the barracks was already gone — dissipated into the fog along with Paradis and Shiganshina and whatever was left of Reiner.

Porco responded with teeth — sinking into the side of Bertholdt's neck, dragging to his earlobe. A growl vibrating low in his head.

That was all the answer he’d get. For a loudmouth, Porco was quiet when they inevitably ended up in bed on nights like this. Cold nights, lonely nights, which was to say every night. A cigarette passing between their fingers at the end of it all, when the sun had risen and bled over their intertwined shapes. Only then would Porco break the silence.

“You were saying his name again.”

The words were loud, sobering; alcohol already running out of his system. Like his life, everything was shortened, gone within a beat. Leaving him aching for another hit. “When we were…?”

“When you were sleeping.” Fingers ghosted over Bertholdt’s. “Last night.”

“Oh.” If he focused, he could still see wisps of smoke, dancing in the air. “Then does it matter?”

There used to be a time when Porco would answer. Now he laid there, silent, until Bertholdt drew him to another kiss, tasting the tar on his lips, drowning whatever was to come.

He didn’t need an answer anyways. It was the present moment — the real Bertholdt — that decided who he’d kiss, who he’d touch, leaving Reiner only to the whims of his dreams.

It truly didn’t matter.


	2. wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Even when they no longer cared, some things are better done in privacy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag(s) for this chapter: fluff, mild angst, very minor past Reibert

There was purple on Porco’s lips. Wine. He leaned in, sipped it away, taking a lip between his own. Letting the tartness linger on his own tongue.

If there was chatter, he couldn’t hear it. Didn’t care to hear it. And if there were eyes— all the better — because Bertholdt was used to them, _craved_ them ever since he returned to this world of uniforms and pageantry and duty.

“Come on,” he said. Boots, scuffing against the pavement as he pulled Porco up. The music buzzing around them. “Dance with me.”

Porco had leaned into his touch. But now, he pulled away. “I can’t.”

Bertholdt looked around at the party. “They can’t do anything to us.”

“I know.”

The pink reached Porco’s ears.

It wasn’t from the wine. Nor was it from being surrounded by a crowd of other uniformed men and bejeweled women — sets of eyes casting that look, hoping it would be enough (it wasn’t), hoping it would stop them (it didn’t).

No, Porco wasn’t afraid or embarrassed to be seen with him. He was embarrassed, because—

“I can’t dance.”

When he said it he put both hands deep into his jacket’s pockets and looked away, taking the purple with him. Hiding.

Bertholdt touched his face, brought it back to his lips.

“Come.” He took one hand from the pocket, guiding it into his own. “Let’s go somewhere else.”

The pink intensified. “Where?”

“Anywhere.”

The party had drawn people in like moths, draining life from the city, leaving it a bare skeleton, a quiet playground. In the orange of the streetlights he took Porco’s hands into his own and rocked; the alcohol swaying the ground beneath them, bumping their feet and knees into each other. Porco grumbled.

“It’s okay,” Bertholdt said, a soft hush. “We’ll take it slow.”

They drew closer to each other, stepping carefully and deliberately. Each move was shy, reserved; a staccato of steps that eventually flowed into a rhythm — circling around the street, glimpsing in and out of streetlights.

“How did you learn this?” Porco had whispered, astounded.

Bertholdt thought about the place across the sea. There had been eyes too, back then. Friendlier eyes. Someone had brought him to his feet, guided him into the tempo of the music,told him to let go ( _relax, Bertl!_ ), told him that it would be okay. There was freedom then, tainted only by his own doing, by the smoke and heat and destruction that was Shiganshina.

His hands squeezed Porco’s. When he looked into his eyes, he saw a world that was not his own, the purple of the night reflected in them. He drank it in.

"I don't remember anymore.”


	3. soar

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> In the night, they spread their wings and soared.  
> 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Tag(s) for this chapter: fluff, mild angst

When the sky donned its cloak for the night, they shed their own and fled — out of the city, into the wilderness.

They ran until Bertholdt could feel his entire body burning — scrapes lining his legs where his khakis had torn off, blisters forming on his soles — and he would think back to the days of being propelled through the air, when the only thing fighting against him was the wind that whipped through his hair.

He would reminisce. Sometimes, he would even miss it.

But it was short-lived. Because when Bertholdt started to slow down, Porco took it as a cue to transform — mane billowing in the breeze — and he would wait, just long enough for Bertholdt to clamber onto his back. Then they began the journey anew, continuing together as one.

Bertholdt had been thrown off the first few times. It was unlike riding a horse. The Jaw was much more agile, powering through the woods in broad jumps and surges, shaking Bertholdt’s grip loose and leaving him in the dust. But Porco always returned for him, always slowed down just enough to let him stay on.

Now they had perfected the harmony. Now, Bertholdt knew to keep low and bury himself in the Jaw’s mane, gripping with his thighs and hands, keeping his balance just right as they charged through the brush; jumping over boulders and trunks, galloping past trees, leaping — _flying —_ across crevices and ravines. In the night there was no one and no obstacle to stop them, no duty to hold them back.

They only stopped when they reached the cliffside, where there was finally nothing else to stand between them and the view. Then it was the night that flew, as it had a dozen times before — spent laying on their backs, smoking whatever cigarettes were left in Bertholdt’s pockets ( _it’s not my fault they flew off!)_ , drinking through the wine bottles that didn’t smash. Hands running over the rips of Bertholdt’s khakis, glimpsing through the gaps to touch his skin.

When dawn began to break, Bertholdt stared at the morning birds flitting across the sky. He thought of soldiers, wires trailing after them. Soaring through the blue.

“Are you thinking about them again?”

Bertholdt only nodded. There was no point in hiding the truth.

A finger slid through the ripped threads, prying into his skin. “Do you miss them?”

At that, Bertholdt laughed. Because as much as he remembered flying — the illusion of wings — he also remembered landing, returning to foreign land with people whose eyes he had to deceive, whose lives he had to end. At least their facades here were clothes-deep, easily shed, leaving only their bare skins and their true faces; raw, exposed.

He rolled onto his side. When he looked into Porco’s eyes there was a truth in them, a certainty of who he was speaking to. He ran one hand through his hair, loose and wind-swept.

“No,” he finally answered. He wasn’t sure if he was talking to Porco, or to himself. “I have what I need here.”


	4. habit

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porco ran out of hair gel.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ok this is probably crack / ooc / random. But I just want these two to be happy for once and I want to write some lighter slice-of-life Warrior stuff. Posted while I'm tired af so I'll probably be making ninja edits later on.
> 
> Also note that the past Reibert won't be consistent throughout this fic. My gallibert brainrot has reached the point where I want them to exist independently of reibert.
> 
> Tag(s) for this chapter: pure fluff, (probably) crack

The morning started with a loud clatter from the bathroom.

When Bertholdt went to check, he found Porco on the floor, head buried inside the under-sink cabinet. He was clawing the contents out, throwing various toiletries onto the floor. Cursing under his breath.

Bertholdt knelt down. “What’s wrong?”

Porco startled, knocking his head on the ceiling of the cabinet. He was seething when he emerged. “Could you not sneak up on me like that?”

Bertholdt merely raised an eyebrow.

Something seemed off. Not that Porco was grumpier than usual — no, he was always prickly before his first cup of coffee (or even after), but there was something else about his appearance that seemed different.

Bertholdt zeroed in on it almost instantly. His hair. Instead of being swept back as usual, it’s flopping over his eyes, loose and disheveled.

Porco confirmed it soon enough. “We’re out of hair gel.”

Bertholdt blinked. “I thought you keep jars of them at the ready.”

“Yes, well—“ Porco waved at the cabinet, aggravated. “The neighbors must have stolen them. Again.”

The “neighbors” were two Marleyan soldiers who lived in the adjacent room and shared their bathroom. Bertholdt had a suspicion of why they kept stealing the gel, but he didn’t dare say it out loud to Porco. The man took his hair seriously.

“We’ll buy a new one.”

Porco snorted, running one hand through his hair to keep it back. Strands still flopped down onto his face. “Haven’t you heard? The distribution is bottlenecked by the conflict in Odiha. They only get restocked at the first of the month now. Which is…” He thought about it, then groaned. “… in two weeks.”

“Oh.”

“I can’t believe you don’t follow the news.”

“In my defense, I don’t think a lot of people follow news about hair gel.”

Porco huffed. “This isn’t funny, Bertholdt.” He stood up, pacing around the small bathroom. “I can’t go out like this.”

Bertholdt sighed. It may sound ridiculous to a stranger that someone hardened like Porco would break down over _hair_. But Bertholdt understood. As chaotic as their lives could be, there were still a few rules and habits they needed to hold up at all times. For one, Bertholdt would break the nose of anyone who as much as mentioned the island across the sea to him. There were a few exceptions, but in general he kept to it. A second one, a secret he kept closer to his chest, was that he didn’t like to sleep alone.

But. This was about Porco.

He stood up and grabbed his roommate by the arms, stopping him in his tracks. “Calm down. We’ll find a substitute.”

Porco scowled. “I am _not_ putting cooking grease on my hair.”

Fair. It would also be unpleasant for Bertholdt to smell. “How about we go talk to the neighbors and get them back?”

“They’d deny it.” Porco pulled a face. “I’m also not sure if I want it back after… whatever they did with it.”

So at least they were on the same page about that. “Are you sure you can’t just wear your hair like this?”

“It’s ugly.”

Bertholdt frowned. “ _I_ wear my hair like that.”

“My point stands.”

Bertholdt shook his head. “Well. I guess you won’t need help from someone _ugly_ like me…” He turned to leave.

“Wait—“ Something grabbed at his wrist. “Wait. Hold on.”

When Bertholdt turned back around, Porco expression was soft, almost vulnerable. His hand stayed gripped on Bertholdt’s wrist, as if he was afraid that Bertholdt really would leave him there, doomed to the state of his hair.

“Look,” Porco started, hoarsely. “It’s really important to me.”

Bertholdt stared. “Why, Porco?”

That was a slip of the tongue. He had a hard time remembering things lately. But Porco, for once, didn’t correct him. Instead he looked down, too embarrassed to go on.

Bertholdt wriggled his wrist free, only to slip his hand back through Porco’s, joining them together. He squeezed; a soft encouragement.

Finally, Porco peered up.

“It’s just,“ he croaked, “it’s how Marcel…”

He paused and scowled, as if he was angry at himself. “I’m just used to how we wore our hair.”

Oh.

“I understand,” Bertholdt said, quickly. He squeezed Porco’s hand again before letting go. “We’ll figure something out.”

Pink tinged Porco’s ears. “That’s what I’ve been trying to do, asshole.”

Bertholdt sighed. He’d let that one slide. “Alright. So if we can’t find a good substitute, then maybe…” He gave it some thought. “A tool.”

“A tool?”

“Yep.”

Bertholdt strolled back into the room and dug through his drawers, pulling out an old shirt. He ripped a strip off of it.

Porco frowned as he returned to the bathroom. “What are you going to do with that?”

“Just trust me.” He swept Porco’s hair back and tied the strip of cloth over it; a makeshift bandana.

They turned together to the mirror. Porco grimaced. “I look like my mother.”

“Don’t insult her like that.”

That earned Bertholdt an elbow to the side. He groaned. “This is what I get for helping?”

“That’s what you get for being smart.” Porco shoved his hands deep into his pockets, glancing at Bertholdt through the mirror. It seemed to take his entire strength to say the next two words. “Thank you.”

It was a rare display. “I wish I can record this.”

“Shut up.” There was a brief pause. “People are going to make fun of me, aren’t they?”

“So? It’s just for a couple of weeks.” He touched Porco’s back, pushing lightly, asking him to stand a little taller. “And you’re the Jaw. Who would make fun of you?”

Porco snorted. “You seem to forget about Pieck and Zeke.”

Bertholdt sighed. Technically, he’s done his job. Technically, he should be able to leave the bathroom, guilt-free, and go on with his day.

So he didn’t know what possessed him to grab the shirt, rip another strip off of it, and wrap it around his own hair.

“Alright,” he said, as Porco stared. “I’ll wear it with you for solidarity.”

“ _What_?”

“I owe you a couple of favors anyways.”

Porco actually seemed caught off-guard. “Bertholdt, you really don’t have to—“

“Save it, Mr. Galliard.”

He couldn’t help the cheeky smile that spread through his lips when Porco flushed at the nickname — either out of embarrassment or anger, or both. Regardless, it was starting to become a pleasant sight to Bertholdt. “Let’s get ready. We’re running late.”

Only when they walked to the mess hall, eyes predictably staring at them, did Porco speak up again — his voice almost a whisper. “Thank you.”

Two in one day. That was new. But Porco probably had enough teasing for the day, so Bertholdt only smiled and said—

“You’re very welcome.”


	5. magic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt and Porco were assigned to paperwork duty. They're not fans of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on a series of headcanons that post-timeskip Edgetolt would be lazy af and get in trouble all the time with Porco, then try to sneak out of his punishment. Also unapologetically gay.
> 
> Tags for this chapter: (probably) crack, light-hearted

The heat was sweltering.

Naturally, the fans worked in overdrive. Metal clanked and rattled above him; ceiling plaster raining chalk onto his shoulders, dusting the ink that hadn’t even dried on his papers.

Even then, they did little to ease the temperature. There were too many people cramped into the left wing of the headquarters, where he had been trapped for the last few hours. Desks were pushed against one another to form island blocks; bodies squeezed into damp uniforms and tight spaces, leaving little path to move through, little air to breathe. And what little air was there reeked of sweat and salt and the grit of cigarette smoke, clinging to his nostrils.

The phone rang yet again. Bertholdt sighed as it continued to do so, as it had five times before; the officer in charge of the phone nowhere to be seen. When it rang again, Bertholdt grabbed the receiver and slammed it back, silencing it for good.

An officer chuckled, somewhere in the room. “… You’re going to get into trouble, Hoover.”

He cast a withering glance. “I’m already in trouble.”

There was no response, only an echo of snickers and muted laughter.

Bertholdt suddenly decided he could no longer take the heat.

He stood up. The officers looked around in alarm. But he ignored them and made a beeline for the desk at the front of the office, shoved to an awkward corner by the door.

Porco was sitting there. It seemed intentional on Magath’s part, to separate them this far, as if they were still children in detention. He supposed that last part was at least true.

Bertholdt touched the back of Porco’s nape, jolting him in surprise. He glared up at Bertholdt. “What?”

Porco looked absolutely miserable. Somehow they had coerced him into putting on a shirt and a tie, which now hung loosely from his collar. A damp patch of sweat had formed on his back.

Bertholdt sat on the desk, on top of a stack of files that must’ve been Porco’s to-dos.

“Want to see a magic trick?”

Porco leaned back against his chair. The scowl didn’t leave his face. “This better be worth my time.”

Bertholdt smiled. He offered his hand out. “Bite into it.”

Porco looked down, then up again. “You joking?”

“No. Bite if you want to see the magic trick.”

Porco snorted. He shook his head. “You’re insane. I’m not doing that.”

“Oh, come on.”

“Just bite it yourself!”

“Magic is about partnership between the audience and the magician.”

“That’s bullshit. I swear—”

The door behind Porco suddenly swung open, slamming into the back of his head. He yelped. “Goddamnit!”

The culprit simply cast them a half-apologetic look and sauntered off, squeezing past desks and bodies.

Porco gritted his teeth. “If Magath put my desk here for punishment, I fucking get it already.”

“Hmm,” Bertholdt hummed. “You want to get out of here?”

Porco’s eyes snapped up. “Of course I do.”

“So bite my hand.”

“Bertholdt.” Porco scooted his chair forward, squeezing tightly against the desk. Deathly afraid of another incoming attack from the door. “What exactly is your plan?”

“You’ll find out.”

“Will it get us in more trouble?”

Bertholdt looked around. “I don’t know, is there anything worse than filing papers?”

“I can think of many.”

“Oh, come on.” He gave it some thought. “You know they need us too much for their own good.”

Porco folded his arms. “You _really_ hate this, huh.”

“Don’t you?”

“Not as much as you do, apparently.” He snickered. “I guess to stump the Colossal, you just have to drown him in paperwork.”

Bertholdt went to stand up. “Alright. Fine. Don’t play along, then…”

Porco grabbed at his sleeve, just in time.

“Wait.”

Porco stood up, leaned in. He scowled. “If we get double paperwork duty because of this, you’re taking half of mine.”

Bertholdt weighed the pros and cons. He decided it was still worth it.

“Deal.”

Again the hand was offered to Porco. He glanced around, self-consciously.

The other officers were starting to watch, whispers slithering through the heavy air. Two military men — much less Eldians — standing this close to one another, was apparently more than enough to garner attention.

“Let them watch,” Bertholdt said. One finger traced Porco’s jawline, beckoning him to look ahead. “This works better the more people are watching.”

Porco sighed. He grabbed onto Bertholdt’s hand.

“Alright then,” he said.

He leaned in and pressed his lips against Bertholdt’s knuckles, not breaking their gaze. A _very_ disgruntled huff echoed through the room. Whatever eyes they didn’t catch before was now definitely on them. Porco grinned.

Then he bit down. Hard.

Footsteps clopped towards them, frantically.

“What exactly are you two up to!” a voice thundered. “I’ll report you to the Commander for indecency—how dare you—“

Bertholdt swung around, brandishing the newly gushing wound on his hand. Sparks of electricity bounced off of his broken skin.

“Shit!” he sighed. “I think I’m losing control over here!“

But no one was listening. The officer’s face had gone white as a sheet at the first flicker of light, and the room erupted into pandemonium; sluggish pot-bellied men suddenly snapping back into high alert and charging towards them — towards the door — squeezing past the tiny frame, yelling at the top of their lungs. Bertholdt leaped back and pulled Porco by the collar, just in time to avoid the stampede, just in time to get them safely on the desk.

Somewhere, an alarm blared. Someone must’ve activated it. Another screamed, in the far distance: “Hoover’s lost it!”

They sat atop Porco’s desk, watching the chaos, hearing the life literally drain out of the building, until the room was silent except for the clacking of fans and the steady droning of the alarm. The air was suddenly so much more breathable.

Bertholdt jumped down onto his feet. “Cool magic trick, right?”

Porco snapped the tie off of his neck. He shook his head. “Demented, you mean.”

“Hey, it got us out of here.” Bertholdt cocked his head. “… Want to go raid the cafeteria?”

An eye roll. A nod. They walked out of the room to a practically empty hallway, a stray soldier or two still lingering around in their confusion. Bertholdt simply shook a bloodied hand at them. The hallway cleared out immediately.

Porco sighed. “We are so getting double paperwork duty.”

Bertholdt shrugged. His arm wrapped around Porco’s shoulders, pulling him close.

“Then we’ll just have to do an encore.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks to [klvcyWrites](https://archiveofourown.org/users/klvcyWrites/pseuds/klvcyWrites) for adding on to this wonderful Twitter [thread](https://twitter.com/stoutpengi/status/1341880623431094274?s=20) of Edgetolt headcanons that's basically the fuel for this ficlet. Marley is just having one of those Hoover Days.


	6. mornings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bertholdt likes to wake Porco up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Apparently these two just live rent-free on my mind.
> 
> Tags for this chapter: (mild) angst, fluff, (lots of) kissing, implied past Reibert.

Bertholdt started at the skin of Porco’s ankle.

He pressed a small kiss against it, hands tracing up the smooth curve of Porco’s calf, lips following closely along and peppering the length of his leg with pecks. When Porco didn’t so much as stir, Bertholdt continued, reaching the base of his thigh, suckling on the spot that Bertholdt learned would cause the muscle underneath to contract and draw out a whine from Porco. Still he didn’t wake, merely grumbled in his sleep.

It’s fine; Bertholdt wanted to take his time anyways. He traced the contour of Porco’s body with his lips, reaching the apex of his right hip where he lingered, feeling the swell of the bone with his tongue — knowing full well how this jutted out more than the other and reminding himself of it again, memorizing it, earning a little shudder from Porco.

With every kiss that landed he tried to sear it into his brain: the goosebumps on Porco’s skin, the taste of it; the fluff around his torso, the parts that weren’t hard and muscle-bound and gave way at the slightest pressure of Bertholdt’s lips. They formed a map in his mind, a map he knew so well by now, a map he was increasingly terrified of forgetting, as he had done with another. A map that guided him to Porco’s face, finally stirring awake.

Bertholdt swept back the hair that had fallen over Porco’s eyes. “Peek-a-boo.”

Porco only grumbled. Eyes still shut. “Can’t I have five more minutes?”

“Only if you want to be nagged by the commander.”

“Let him.” Porco buried his head into the crook of Bertholdt’s neck, seeking refuge from the sunlight. “I had a long patrol last night.”

Bertholdt’s hand curled around the back of Porco’s neck, fingers running through the bristle of his undercut. “I’ll help wake you up.”

“No,” Porco mumbled, already knowing what’s to come. “My breath.”

“I don’t care.”

Bertholdt pulled away, only to lean back in and plant a kiss on Porco’s neck. Then his jaw and his cheeks, his forehead and the tip of his nose. Settling just on the side of his mouth, teasing him in, waiting.

Porco rolled his eyes. He took the invitation and moved ever so slightly, capturing Bertholdt’s lips with his. There was a bitterness to it: the edge of leftover cigarette smoke and late-night coffee that Porco lived by to get through his night shifts. But even if the taste wasn’t familiar, the tingle that settled in Bertholdt’s abdomen was — a remnant of something he didn’t want to completely forget, couldn’t entirely forget.

They broke apart. Porco shut his eyes again, pressing his forehead against Bertholdt’s. “Why do you do this every morning?” he asked, quietly.

“Wake you up?”

An elbow dug into Bertholdt’s side, chiding. “Kiss me all over.”

“You don’t like it?”

Porco’s forehead felt very, very warm.

“I’m just curious.” His voice was cracked and dry. “Is this what you usually do?”

Bertholdt looked at him. Shook his head.

“No.” He ran a hand through Porco's hair.“Just you.”

“Then why?”

Bertholdt thought about it.

He wanted to remember. And forget. The two conflating in his mind, just as the maps and the tingling inside him had. And even if that conflict grew weaker with each day, even if Porco burned brightly more than ever on his skin, in his mind — he still couldn’t get rid of it, had to remind himself everyday of who’s here and who’s left in the past, across the sea.

“I don’t know,” Bertholdt said.

Suddenly he felt sad.

“Maybe I just want to make the most of our time.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Side note(s): I really like the headcanons that Porco can't grow body hair and have love handles. Lol.


	7. midnight oil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Porco was working late. Bertholdt came to check on him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In this AU, the Paradis mission was a success (although at the expense of Reiner). That would leave Porco as the only Warrior who's never been involved in it.
> 
> Tag(s) for this chapter: I really don't know how to tag this other than "a semi-public handjob but with feelings". **So beware, smut ahead**.
> 
> Also: Porco's POV.

The lantern flared dimly, exhausted. His eyes drooped along with it.

He should stop. The text underneath his fingers were beginning to wriggle and squirm on the crepe of the paper, blurring illegibly. It didn’t help that headquarters was so, so quiet; only a few murmurs from the soldiers on standby could be heard, lazily floating through the air. A beckon to sleep.

Or, he reasoned, the perfect condition to keep working.

So he downed the last of his coffee, grit from the grounds pooling at the back of his tongue. He grimaced and turned to the next page, sight zeroing in on the task at hand.

The rest of the room became a fog. In the night, time seemed to expand and stop, luring him to keep going, to keep himself awake. To be lost in the flicker of the flame, shadows bobbing along on the scrawls of his handwriting, repeating over and over again down the page.

When he jolted free from his stupor, it was because of lips, brushing ever so slightly against his temple.

“I knew I’d find you here.”

Porco almost knocked the ink bottle onto his papers. He sank his face into his hands.

“Bertholdt,” he said. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“That’s because you were nodding off.”

Was he now?

Porco grimaced and straightened up in his chair. “Why are you here?”

Bertholdt sat on the desk, carefully avoiding the stacks of papers. He was already out of his uniform, in a night shirt and loose pants.

“Looking for you,” he replied, simply. “I didn’t find you in our room.”

Porco swallowed. “Can’t you sleep alone for one night?”

It sounded more like an accusation than a question. And maybe he did mean it as one, exhaustion tearing his defenses down involuntarily. But the look on Bertholdt’s face made him regret it immediately.

“I’m sorry,” he followed. “I’m just tired.”

Bertholdt stared. “Then stop working.”

“I can’t. I want to finish most of this before tomorrow.”

Bertholdt picked at a few of the files. “The commander won’t care, Galliard.”

He gritted his teeth at that. “It’s still nice to have.”

“Why?” Bertholdt smiled. “Are you gunning for a promotion?”“

They both knew it was a ridiculous notion. They’re where they were supposed to be. Told to be.

“Of course not.”

“Then stop working.”

Again Porco could only glare. “Easy for you to say, Vice Captain.”

Bertholdt sighed. He pushed himself off the desk, and Porco thought he had gone a bit too far now, the caffeine fueling his paranoia. But Bertholdt only dragged another chair to Porco’s desk, sitting flush against him. He touched Porco’s chin.

“This doesn’t matter,” he said. “I told you already.”

Porco stared. “Maybe it does to me.”

Bertholdt looked away. Porco never expected him to understand anyways. In the day he would never say these things out loud, would never admit wanting to barter for what Bertholdt had seen, what Pieck had glimpsed, what Zeke had led on the island, and that he would spend the rest of his life making up for it. Because he knew how stupid it sounded. How deluded. But the fog of the night was thick, casting mist on his judgement.

If Bertholdt was offended, he didn’t show it. Instead, he turned back towards Porco and leaned in, closely.

“Let me help you then.”

Porco narrowed his eyes. “You hate paperwork.”

“I do.” Bertholdt’s hands dropped to Porco’s lap. “That’s not the kind of help I was offering.”

A beat. Porco wasn’t understanding. The hand slipped under his waistband.

His eyes widened.

“Bertholdt,” he said, urgently.

The hand paused. “Only if you want.”

Porco’s eyes snapped up to the door of the office. It was ajar.

“Someone might see.”

“The desk is blocking us.”

“They can still see you sitting this close to me.“

Bertholdt leaned back, giving them an agreeable distance. “And what’s so wrong about the Vice Captain supervising some paperwork?”

Porco squeezed his pen, tightly.

“Any other concerns?”

When Porco didn’t respond, Bertholdt’s hand began to move, stroking him, slowly. Porco gritted his teeth.

“I don’t understand,” his breath was becoming ragged, hitching every time Bertholdt’s fingers twisted around him, “how this is supposed to help.”

Bertholdt hummed. “You’re awake now, aren’t you?”

Porco supposed he was.

“Now,” Bertholdt said. He propped his head up with his free hand, leaning on the desk. “I think you should continue working.”

He tried. He scrawled exactly four things onto the paper, pausing with each one, a haze growing in his mind as Bertholdt kept pumping. He could feel his pants growing tighter with each second, the heat building low in his belly. And when Bertholdt pulled his hand away, he only found himself perking up warily, disappointed.

“Relax, Galliard,” Bertholdt teased. He spat onto his hand, and slipped it back under Porco’s waistband. “Just relax.”

Bertholdt resumed his strokes. Porco stifled back a whine. The friction built more easily now, the motion languid and hot between his legs. Ink dripped from his pen, where it had stalled over the files. The shadows from the hallway were precariously close.

Suddenly everything in the room seemed amplified. He could hear the guards again, talking, just out of sight. The clock hands striking midnight. His own breaths, straining to keep quiet.

When Porco glanced up, Bertholdt was staring, studying him closely. Watching. Half-lidded eyes tracing his every reaction, lips parting slightly. Porco felt warmth rising in his face, unbearably so, and it made him inch away, a familiar fear rising in his chest.

Concern flickered over Bertholdt’s face.

“Sorry,” he whispered. His hand slowed down. “Too much?”

It wasn’t what he was doing that was too much. It was the look in Bertholdt’s eyes, something that Porco dared not presume.

So he simply nodded and returned to his papers, flipping mindlessly through them, even if he was beginning to strain for release, to abandon his pen and take Bertholdt’s face in his hands and lean into this. To stop chasing after whatever it is he was chasing in the night and instead go for what he really wanted. What may not want him back, the same way it had wanted for another in the past.

“Alright?” a voice echoed through the room.

It wasn’t Bertholdt’s. Porco pinched the bridge of his nose, keeping his gaze down. Of course this would happen.

Bertholdt didn’t so much as stop. Instead, he exchanged pleasantries with the soldier at the door.“Just working through some last-minute things.”

Porco decided he should look up, even if he was struggling to maintain eye contact. The soldier didn’t seem to catch on to what’s going on under the desk. Still, there was an unpleasant edge to his voice when he spoke up next.

“If you’re not on duty, you should abide by the curfew,” he said. “Devils especially.”

Bertholdt’s hand paused, only to resume shortly after.

“We know. It’s an emergency.” He added, charmingly: “We’ll be out of your hair soon.”

The soldier snorted. Thankfully he didn’t linger long, perhaps deterred by the red on their arms. Footsteps faded into the hallway.

Suddenly Porco couldn’t take it anymore.

“Bertholdt,” he said, dryly. “Close the door.”

Bertholdt stopped. He didn’t need to be asked twice. When he came back to his seat — the room now theirs — Porco wrapped one hand around the back of Bertholdt’s neck and pressed their lips together, desperately. His other hand grabbed at Bertholdt’s waistband, trying to pull it down, trying to return the favor. Bertholdt caught it, stopping him.

“No,” he whispered, lips moving against Porco’s. “You don’t have to.”

“I want to.”

“ _I_ offered to help,” Bertholdt said, resting his head on Porco’s shoulder, hands tugging down at his pants. “So let me help.”

“I can still—“

“Galliard.” Bertholdt’s hand was back on him, wrapping tightly, moving in a practiced motion. “It’s okay.”

It was becoming difficult to protest. He was exhausted, he was on edge, and the pressure that had built inside him was begging for release, brimming over as Bertholdt continued to stroke him just right, just enough. He surrendered himself then, leaned his forehead on Bertholdt’s shoulder, hands gripping tightly onto the loose fabric of his night shirt, pulling him closer.

“Just relax,” Bertholdt hummed in his ear. His other arm wrapped snugly around Porco, holding him in place. “Let go of everything.”

And Porco did. He stopped listening to the room, to the night. To his own grunts, guttural and low, muffled into Bertholdt’s shirt. Against his better judgement, he began to focus instead on the warmth of Bertholdt’s skin, pale against his fingertips, and the lips that were now pressing just under his earlobe, suckling gently on his own skin—

“Bertholdt,” he muttered, because that’s all he could think of right now, right that second, “Bertholdt. Please.”

He uttered it, over and over again, more desperately each time, bucking into the rhythm of Bertholdt’s hand. Giving himself away with each plea. And unfailingly, every time, those lips whispered back to his calls.

“I’m here,” they said. “I’m here. I’m here.”

He came with Bertholdt’s name still on his lips.

For a while he stayed there, spent, fingers hooking loosely off of Bertholdt’s shirt, face buried deep into the crook of his neck. Slowly he began to hear his own breathing, heavy and ragged, the blood pumping hard in his ears. Sweat had collected on his brow. Bertholdt rubbed his back with one hand, soothing him.

“Good?” he asked, so casually, that Porco wanted to grimace.

“What do you think?”

He pulled away then, rummaging through his desk drawer for a rag. Thankfully he found one. He cleaned Bertholdt’s hand first, then himself.

“You didn’t have to do this,” he said. The night was quiet, so awfully quiet. The back of his mind suddenly chattering aloud. “You should’ve gone to sleep.”

“But I wanted to.”

Bertholdt leaned in. Porco must’ve moved by instinct, because the kiss missed, landing instead on the side of his lips. They parted, awkwardly.

“Are you coming back to the barracks?” Bertholdt asked, after a pause.

Porco looked at his papers. The lantern had snuffed out, leaving them in the moonlight.

“In a bit,” he finally said. “I might do one more thing.”

Bertholdt sighed. “I’ll stay with you, if it doesn’t take long.”

“You really don’t have to.”

“I sort of do.”

Porco suddenly understood when Bertholdt sheepishly crossed his hands over his own lap. Guilt seeped into him.

“You should’ve let me take care of you too.”

Bertholdt shrugged. “You had a long day. You’re having a long night. I want you to relax.”

Porco swallowed. He felt that strange fear again, rising up like bile, because a decision was being made by his heart right now — a decision he had no control over. And before long, with each night that passed, he would lose himself entirely to Bertholdt, to someone who he knew had left a piece of himself somewhere else.

A touch on his hand brought him back to the room.

“You give too much of yourself away, Galliard.”

He froze. Taken by surprise. “What?”

Bertholdt gestured at the files and folders on the desk. “To this. To Marley.”

The fear morphed quickly into a wall.

“What should I dedicate myself to then?” he asked. “To you?”

Shadows shifted on Bertholdt’s face. He might’ve grimaced, he might’ve twitched. He might’ve not reacted at all. Porco had no way of knowing.

“Whatever it is,” Bertholdt finally said, standing up. Pulling back his touch. “I hope it’s something that matters to you.”

He walked away, pausing only at the door. For a moment he looked back.

“Don’t work too late,” he said. “Unless you want Private Power Trip to come back and nag.”

Porco looked away. Nodded. “I know.”

Bertholdt sighed, and left.

He was too tired to even feel regret. He knew in an hour he would slip back into the small bunk, too small for the both of them, and he would wrap his arms around Bertholdt — a quiet apology — and Bertholdt would place his hands over his — a quiet forgiveness. They would go on about their days, doing the same things they’ve always done. Him, losing a piece of himself to every touch.

Porco rubbed his eyes. He lit up a match and held it to the lantern.

The midnight oil burned on.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I headcanon Porco to be critical of Marley but at the same time... be a tryhard? I think Bertholdt would've told him that Marcel deliberately saved him from being a Warrior and that he was never inferior, but I imagine that kind of self-esteem/insecurity issues don't go away so quickly. Especially when he's excluded from a big successful mission of recovering the Founder. 
> 
> Anyways, hope this wasn't too confusing. Feedback is always appreciated!

**Author's Note:**

> Add me on [Twitter](https://twitter.com/chubbpengi) and [Tumblr](https://chubbystoutpenguin.tumblr.com/) if you want to talk more about Gallibert/Beruporu. I post a lot more on Twitter though.


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